Des monstres et des hommes
by Bel0chka
Summary: Down the Pont d'Arcole the boy walked. Down the Pont was the Rue, down the Rue, Notre Dame. Down the Rue, echoed the voice of a mysterious balladeer. (A.K.A. Yet ANOTHER Attempt at a Live Action Retelling of Hunchback?)
1. Les cloches de Notre Dame

**Prologue**: Les cloches de Notre Dame

* * *

Seven times rung the bells. Seven times sung the bells.

_Morning in Paris,_

_the city awakes_

_to the bells of Notre Dame._

Walking down the the Pont d'Arcole, a peasant boy made his way to the _boulanger_, four deniers in his pocket. He was to buy three baguettes, to last the day for _maman_, _papa_, _tante _Celestine, _grand-mère_, as his seven _p'tit_ _frères_. The boy's mouth watered at the thought of blancmange and sugared almonds and baked pears. Yet, he knew papa would hit him were he to return without the day's bread, and one spare coin could buy him no sweets but for quince. Quince pleased not the boy's palate.

Down the Pont d'Arcole the boy walked. Down the Pont was the Rue, down the Rue, Notre Dame. Down the Rue, echoed a voice, clear as the bells.

_The fisherman fishes,_

_the bakerman bakes,_

_to the bells of Notre Dame._

The voice had a strange and haunting timbre: the low notes rich, warm, lachrymose - the highs resonant and clarion bright. The chiaroscuro of this voice echoed that of the bells. Such a voice, the boy supposed, had to belong to a youth some five years older than himself.

_To the big bells_

_as loud as the thunder._

_To the little bells,_

_soft as a psalm._

What did this mysterious bard look like, the boy wondered? The boy dreamed him fair-haired and fancily dressed, some nobleman who had abandoned courtly life to woo his beloved with tales of princesses and dragons, of treacherous villains and knights in shining armor. The troubadour's ladylove would have skin of ivory, eyes of sapphire, lips of ruby, and hair of gold. Though it couldn't have been easy to woo a beauty such as she, the maiden fair must have been smitten by the bard's weeping lute and gentle tenor.

_And some say the soul_

_of the city's the toll_

_of the bells,_

_the bells of Notre Dame._

To the boy's surprise, the bard's clothes were nearly rags. He was clad in a heavy cloak, his features obscured by a wide-brimmed hat. From the calloused brown hands picking at the lute's strings and long dark tresses hastily tied behind his back, the boy gathered - the bard was no Frenchman, but a _gitan_.

Beside the bard sat a white goat that ought to have been turned into stew many moons ago: the poor thing's ribs jutted out and its fur was matted and mangy. The goat affectionately nuzzled its head against its owner's lap.

The Romani bard took off his hat and left it at his feet, as if to incite passersby to drop a coin.

The boy looked upon the bohemian's face and saw he had once more been mistaken, for she was in fact a woman clad in men's garb.

The woman was no longer young, not yet old. Her dark hair was grayed around the temples; her dark eyes were lined with weariness.

The woman noticed the boy's stare, and grinned at him knowingly. Setting aside her lute, she signaled towards Notre Dame.

"Listen. They're beautiful, no? So many colors of sound," the woman's voice fell and rose as if still in song, "so many changing moods."

The boy narrowed his eyes. Inside his pocket, he clutched the four deniers mother had given him. Her kind approached only when they needed money, and he had none to spare.

"_Maman_ said I mustn't speak to Gypsies."

"Ah, but you already are," said she, smiling wryly.

The boy did not return the smile, nor did he avert his gaze. He stood quietly, scrutinizing the woman's face. He noticed a gold ring upon her nose that did nothing but call attention to the fact her nose was slightly overlarge. Even in her youth, he imagined, the woman mustn't have been a great beauty.

"Did you ever hear the tale of the bellringer of Notre Dame? Hidden away, up there, high, high in the dark belltower?"

The boy looked away, for he knew her kind were not to be associated with. Yet curiosity burned within him. He had heard rumors of a horrible monster, of a beautiful dancer, of a city under siege. Yet each version of the story was so different that he did not know which one to believe, or if to believe at all.

He returned his gaze to the woman, and heeded not his mothers warning.

"I have heard rumors."

"Rumors are rarely to be believed."

"Do _you _know the real story?"

"Perhaps."

Knowingly, she smiled.

The boy paused. The woman was purposefully being evasive in order to pique his interest, this he knew. He did not want her to _win_.

... But he _did_ want to hear her tale.

"Then," he said, accepting defeat, "will you tell me?"

The woman shook her head.

"It is no story for children's ears."

Her words wounded the boy's pride. Come the spring, he was to turn ten and three. He held the number as a true mark of manhood.

"I'm not a child," he protested.

A throaty chuckle emerged from the woman's throat.

"Very well. If you insist, _chava_," she said, laughing yet, "then I will tell you."

One, two, three, one, two, three, the woman strung upon her lute. The chords sung of danger ahead.

"But I must warn you: it is a terrible tale. A tale of a man…"

The woman's dark voice grew darker yet.

"…and a monster."

* * *

**A/N**: Most of the action will be delivered in a traditional fit format, but I will include the songs in script format after the relevant chapters. I have compiled lyrics from the movie, Glöckner, and the US stage productions, plus added some original lyrics of my own.

**P.S.** As a kid, I was fed quince sandwiches and found them disgusting. I much prefered "bocatas de chocolate" (a bar of chocolate on baguette).


	2. Deux frères

**Chapter 1**: Deux frères

* * *

_Long years ago _

_did this story begin, _

_in this place called Notre Dame..._

* * *

**1438**

The bells struck the eight hour.

Dusk had long dimmed a snowy, yet sunny, December afternoon. What had once been a crisp breeze had grown into a harsh draft. Notre Dame gazed down upon two children, shivering in the twilight. The elder of the two neared his tenth year. The younger was likely half his age.

The older boy drew his hands to his face, blowing on them to warm them. His fingers were stiff as those of the saints and monsters upon Notre Dame's façade. He took off his cloak and drew it protectively over the younger child's shoulders. The little one's beam warmed his heart more than any clothing could. Despite his chapped lips, the older boy smiled at his little brother, Jehan - his only joy and solace.

Just two weeks ago, Claude Frollo was a happy child, bright and curious. Though _maman_ and _papa_ were not wealthy, they enjoyed the modest comforts of the _petite bourgeoisie_. The Frollos ran a small apothecary. It made enough money to put bread on the table, shoes on their feet, and a roof over their heads - but little else. Monsieur Frollo could not help the bile from rising in his throat when he overheard the sneers and sniggers of merchants and bankers. Madame Frollo could not avoid eyeing with envy the ermine trim of noblewomen's robes as they strolled by - head held high, headdress higher.

Yet Claude was grateful for sharing a room with only one sibling. He did not yearn for the station for a noble or a _haute bourgeoise._ His life, though humble, was full of love - a thing far more precious than any material possession.

Every moment with his family was to Claude an immense source of joy. He enjoyed collecting herbs and flowers alongside _maman_, then pressing and drying them into a leather bound journal. He adored watching over _papa_'s shoulder as he labeled each flower with a florid twist of the hand. Above all, Claude liked reading Jehan his bedtime stories: biblical tales, and tales of Saints martyred in protection of the faith.

In these simple pleasures, Claude found great happiness. Yet this happiness was not to last.

Blackness befell the Frollo household. It stole _papa_ in a blink. _Maman_ came next. Soon as the birdmen noticed the first omen, they took her away. The birdmen burned their house, their business down. It was the only way to keep death from spreading, they said. Claude watched as the flames devoured the house he'd once called a home. The birdmen fulfilled their duties and paid no mind to anything else. They cared not that the children had nowhere to go, for there is no money to make off charity.

Lost in his memories, Claude clenched a half-frozen fist. Bitterness had for the first time in his life awoken in his young heart. The world had once seemed to him so friendly and fair, with each dawn promising a new lesson to learn. He knew better now. The world was cruel. The world was wicked.

Claude didn't know, couldn't know, what his parents had done to deserve their fate. They were good people. They earned an honest living. They attended mass each Sunday, and read their Bibles assiduously. What had they done wrong that they deserved such punishment? Perhaps it had been him. Perhaps God had punished him for the time he stole a handful of sugared almonds at the boulangerie. Perhaps God remembered that time he felt too tired to recite his daily Lord's Prayer. _Perhaps_... _Perhaps_...

The boy blinked back his tears, determined not to cry in front of his younger brother. He placed his hand atop of Jehan's head, ruffling his red-gold hair. Little Jehan was the one reminder of the life Claude had once had. Claude knew that now more than ever, it was his duty to care for his brother, in body and in spirit. He would do anything to shelter Jehan from wickedness. Claude vowed then to always follow the path of righteousness, and to ensure Jehan did the same.

Little Jehan's attention was captured by a group of children who played merrily in the square. Their warm laughter formed clouds of mist in the icy air. Longing to to join in their games, Jehan motioned towards the children. Yet he was stopped by a sharp tug at his sleeve.

"They're _gypsies_," warned his elder brother. "Stay away."

Claude always had been wary of the newcomers. Their customs, their food, their language - they were all strange and unfamiliar to him. His elders reaffirmed his mistrust. _Maman_ said they were not God fearing. _Papa_ said they were thieves, and conmen, and little else. Claude had no reason to doubt his parents' words, and so he took them to be true without much examination.

But he'd never held his distaste of the Roma particularly fervently until now. Now that Claude so desperately needed something to blame his woes upon, even the most outlandish of rumors seemed tenable. Once, he had heard they stole the children of good, hard working citizens and ate them. Once, he'd heard they had brought the pestilence to Paris with their unclean manners. He'd even heard they purposefully poisoned the wells for their own demonic ends. Claude had once shrugged these notions off. Yet something, someone must have caused the plague.

Could _maman_ be to blame? _Maman_, with her marigold hair and eyes of forget-me-not? _Maman_, whose soft pale hand led Claude through verdant fields as they picked poppies and pansies and peonies and petunias? Or, perhaps, was it _papa_ who was wicked? _Papa_, whose dark eyes crinkled joyfully as he laughed a laugh warm and comforting as the roar of a fireplace? _Papa_, whose strong sun-soaked arms embraced Claude as he sat in his lap, reading the Psalms? It couldn't be.

Placing a hand on his brother's back, Claude directed Jehan's path away from the _heathens_ and towards Notre Dame.

As the elder of the two brothers beheld the cathedral's façade, he felt a little bit more at ease. He regarded the statue of Our Lady, crowned in glory, upon the left portal. She held Christ in her lap, much like _maman_ had held him once, what now seemed like millennia ago. As his eyes met the Virgin's, Claude could swear he felt her stare back with a warm, maternal gaze.

Unsure whether anyone would answer so late in the evening, Claude tapped on the door. There was no response.

He knocked once more. Nobody came.

Gathering what little strength he had, he pounded his fist. His sore, cracked hands ached.

As Claude was ready to turn away, the door opened.

At the jamb stood a rotund man. His robe was white as his hair, his hair as white as the snow.

"_Mes enfants_, it is growing very late," he said, with a voice big as the bourdon bell, "is it not time you head home?"

"We have none, your grace," answered Claude, looking at his feet.

The man furrowed his brow in concern.

"And your parents?" he asked.

"Claimed by a pox."

Claude raised his eyes to meet the man's weary gaze.

"Please," said the man sympathetically, "come on in."

Happy to find a refuge from the cold, the brothers walked into Notre Dame.

Claude gazed down the candlelit nave in awe. It was not the first time he stepped inside the cathedral, yet he could not help but gasp in admiration once more. He looked up at the majesty of the vaulted ceiling. Its height amazed him so, he could hardly breathe. For a moment, Claude allowed himself to stand still. Slowly, he drew a labored breath. He closed his eyes, and let the scent of incense warm his lungs.

The boy opened his eyes to find the elderly man looking back, smiling sadly.

"I am Père Dupin," he introduced himself, "Archdeacon of Notre Dame."

"Our Lady always offers refuge for those in need. You may stay here, if you so desire."

"We've nowhere else to go," sighed Claude.

"Very well, then."

Near the altar stood a group of novice nuns, who looked back at the two children with pity. With a quick gesture, the Archdeacon beckoned one of them - a plump, round-faced girl with large blue eyes.

"Yes, your grace?" she said as she approached.

"Soeur Augustine, I am taking these orphans into my care. Could you be so kind to tell the Abbess to provide whatever accommodations she can spare?"

"Of course, your grace," replied the novice with a humble bow of the head. "We will bring it as promptly as possible."

Père Dupin outstretched his arms, gesturing at the vast symphony of stone.

"_Mes enfants_... This," he said, "is now your sanctuary."

* * *

**1441**

Jehan wistfully watched through the window of his cloister. He was to copy his alphabet ten times over.

The boy tried to focus, yet he could not sit still. Some strange restlessness grew in him. He shifted on his seat, crossing and uncrossing his legs. Chewing on a hangnail, he bit until he drew blood. Then, as if by possession, Jehan's quill directed itself to the bottom of the parchment. Jehan begun to sketch idly. He drew pretty birds and pretty flowers, like the ones he could see out the window.

Suddenly aware of his distraction, Jehan scribbled out the doodles and returned his eyes to the alphabet.

_A_. He traced the letter slowly, meticulously.

_B_. First capitalized, then in lowercase.

_C_.

_D_.

_E_.

_F_.

He blinked, realizing his letters looked nothing like the ones he was to copy.

_G_. He scribbled the letter out, and started anew.

_G_…

_H_.

_I_. _Idiot. You're an idiot._

_J_...

Oh, but how _joyfully_ the birds chirped! How _brilliantly_ the sun shone through the window! For a moment, just a moment, Jehan allowed himself to gaze outside. Out there, robins sang to the tune of the carillon bells, dancing in the air. The rowans were in blossom, their placid white contrasting against the cheery yellow of carnations and the vibrant indigo of delphinium. After months of snowfall, the sun shone once again, bathing the parvis of Notre Dame in a golden glow.

Jamming his quill in the inkwell, Jehan stood up. The boy turned to his elder brother, who was, as per usual, doubled over his desk. Claude's gaze was fixed on a piece of parchment. His left hand held open a manuscript; his right trailed an ink feather along calfskin. He'd been at his desk for over two hours without ever so much as raising his glance.

Jehan waved his hand over Claude's dark eyes. Though the youth blinked in surprise, he did not take his eyes off the task in front of him.

"Brother dearest," said Jehan in his most endearing of tones, "may we go out and play?"

"No, Jehan," cracked Claude's voice. The youth was yet unaccustomed to his new instrument. Having played a violin for so long, he handled his new-found cello gracelessly and with unease.

"Oh - but it's such a lovely spring morning," insisted Jehan, throwing his arms over Claude's shoulders, "how can you waste it by staying cooped up in here?"

Jehan kissed his long-suffering brother on the cheek, which was as of a few months ago scattered with fine, patchy facial hair.

"No, Jehan," chided Claude, "no. You have an examination in calligraphy tomorrow. You must study."

"But Claaaaaaaude," whined Jehan. "I can't concentraaaaaaaaate!"

"Then you must force yourself to," Claude reprimanded. "You know your grades have not been too good. Père Dupin will be very disappointed if you once again receive a _peiores_ in..."

Jehan's eyes began to well with tears, only partially fabricated to tug at his brother's heartstrings.

"Oh please," he sobbed, "brother dear!"

Claude sighed. He looked at his little brother's pleading look - blue-green eyes widened, bottom lip jutted out. How could he ever say no that face?

"Very well," acquiesced Claude, "You may go out and play..."

Jehan's face brightened, and immediately wiped his tears.

"Thank you, Claude! Thank you, thank you, thank you! You're so good to me!"

Claude placed a kiss atop Jehan's reddish hair.

"But," Claude added, "I expect you to come back by lunchtime. And after Nones, you must begin to study for your exam."

"Okayyyy, okay," said Jehan, who was already halfway out the door. He had no intention of coming back before sunset, but there was no point in needlessly upsetting his brother.

"Be careful, Jehan."

"I wiiill," slurred the younger sibling.

Jehan stood at the doorframe for a moment. He looked back at his brother, hunched over a book as always. That couldn't be good for his back, could it? He was certain Claude would enjoy taking his mind off his studies for a while. And Jehan would really enjoy having a playmate for once.

"Why don't you come with me, brother?" asked Jehan.

"I'm sorry, _petit_," Claude sighed. "I promised Père Dupin I would translate 20 pages of this manuscript into Latin by tomorrow."

Jehan insisted.

"Please, Claude?"

"I don't have time right now," answered his elder brother, tersely.

Jehan's face fell.

"You _never_ have time for me," he muttered.

Running his hands through his dark hair, Claude mustered whatever little patience he had left. Turning to face his brother, he explained:

"Jehan... you know Père Dupin's sight is no longer very good. Should I shoulder his scribing duties, it would be an invaluable help to-"

"I don't care about Père Dupin!" interrupted Jehan. "All he ever does is make up rules and boss me around and tell me how poorly I'm doing in school."

"Do not be so ungrateful, Jehan. He took us in when nobody else would. If he is strict at times, it's only because he cares about-"

The younger of the two brothers crossed his arms.

"Well," he said petulantly, "if you won't come with me, I'll just go ALLL by my lonesome."

"Yes, Jehan," answered Claude, dismissively raising an eyebrow, "please do that. Just don't bother me any longer."

Slamming the door behind him, Jehan ran out of the cloisters and down the stairs.

_You're a no good, lazy dunce. That's why Père Dupin always scolds you. That's why Brother pays no mind to you. _

The sullen boy stepped out of the church. He would have slammed the church door behind him, too, were it not so heavy.

_Idiot. You are so mean to your brother who does so much for you. _

Dejectedly, he kicked a stone down the parvis of Notre Dame.

_Why can't you just be nicer to him?_

Jehan bit his lip to stop it from quivering. He blinked back tears - real ones, this time.

_Why can't you just be smarter? Idiot. You are such an idiot._

Yet the day was so cheery. The wind rustled the poplars trees. The sun warmed Jehan's face. Soaking in the spring the boy felt soothed, somewhat.

A flock of pigeons picked at a discarded piece of marbled rye bread, dotted with poppy seed. Such a pity - it looked scrumptious. Jehan's mouth watered at the idea of freshly baked bread, buttered and garnished with ruby red strawberry jam.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted some sisters of the Third Order, sitting underneath an oak tree. Jehan perked up. The nuns were fond of him - if he begged enough, surely they would indulge his craving.

The sisters were gathered around one woman - young yet, somewhat stout - whose hands held an open Bible.

"Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves," she read in a voice soft and gentle, "for the rights of all who are destitute. Speak up and judge fairly; defend the rights of the poor and needy."

Jehan tugged on the nun's veil, nearly dragging it off her head. She turned around. Readjusting her habit, she tucked in a wayward light brown strand of hair.

"Soeur Augustine," Jehan interrupted, "may I have a _sou_ for some bread and jam?"

The nun smiled shrewdly.

"Enfant, we have taken mendicant vows. We've no money to spare but the money others spare for us," she said. "But if you give us a sou, we would be happy to pay you back in kind. My sisters make the most delightful jams. We can bring you a jar of any flavor you prefer, tomorrow morning after mass."

Jehan clenched his fists and stomped his feet.

"B-but," he whined, "I want it now!"

He batted his lashes pitifully. Some of the nuns cooed, charmed by his cherubic appearance. Yet Soeur Augustine, who was accustomed to Jehan's trickeries, remained calm.

"Why are you out here, all by your lonesome?" she asked, in an attempt to redirect the conversation. "Will Claude not come out and play?"

"Claude is too busy with his studies... he always is."

The sister smiled, her blue eyes serene still.

"Perhaps you could help him. For example, when he has an exam, he could recount to you what he has learned in order to..."

"That's no use," interrupted Jehan. "I'm not as smart as him. I'm a no good lazy idiot, everybody knows that."

The young nun frowned. She paused.

"You would not fault a fish for not flying or a bird for not swimming, would you?"

Jehan cocked his head in confusion.

"We've all unique talents of our own," explained Soeur Augustine. "I have seen your sketches, Jehan. They are marvelous. You are quick and skilled at the crafts. And you are a very good singer."

The nun was far too generous in Jehan's eyes. He grumbled:

"Yeah, well - it's not like anybody cares about that. All everybody talks about is how _smart_ Claude is and how _devout_ Claude is and how _dill-dilli_... how Claude has such great promise."

Augustine regarded him with a sad look in her eyes.

"You may stay with us during our bible study if you would like, _enfant,_" she said. "But I'm sure you would prefer to have companions your own age. Why don't you introduce yourself to that group of children over there? My sisters and I will keep a watchful eye over you."

Jehan regarded the group of children who so often played in the Plàce de Notre Dame. He examined their clothing, their complexion. He knew Claude would not be too happy were he to associate with them.

"Them? But they're, you know..." Jehan lowered his voice, "_gypsies_."

The nun's pale eyes narrowed. Her brow furrowed. Soeur Augustine opened her mouth as if she were to speak, but instead pursed her lips. She paused for a moment, contemplatively.

"Very well," she finally said, "you may stay and listen as we read, if you'd prefer."

Soeur Augustine pointed an outstretched palm towards one of her sisters.

"Soeur Francoise, may you please turn to Leviticus 19:33 and read for us?"

The girl - a novice still by her habit - seemed nervous at having been called upon.

"Wh-when a foreigner resides among you in your land," she read hesitantly, "do not mistreat foreigners residing among you - you must treat them as your native-born. Love them as yourself, for you..."

Before the paragraph was over, Jehan was already gone.

* * *

**1451 **

The bells had struck thrice since Compline.

Studious Claude Frollo was, as usual, doubled over his desk. He had an exam next Tuesday - though it was Friday evening still, Claude liked to always be well-prepared. By candlelight, he read Aristotle's Politics - an engrossing tome. The book itself was a beautiful illuminated manuscript, translated from Greek to Arabic to Latin in some Moorish university. For hours, Claude hungrily turned page after page. Yet now, his eyelids grew heavy, and his eye sockets ached dully from the strain of reading in dim lighting. When he found himself rereading the same sentence three times over, Claude decided it was time to go to sleep. He placed his quill in the ink well, and blew out the candle atop his desk.

Claude glanced across the room at his younger brother. Feet up in the air, Jehan had nonchalantly flung himself on his undone bed. He was sketching some type of bird in charcoals. As he drew, his tongue poked out of his mouth. The gesture was endearing, Claude had to admit. It was reminiscent of a time when Jehan was little and, sitting in Claude's lap, doodled plants and animals. Claude could hardly believe that that small child was now the young man in front of him, set to turn eighteen in a few weeks. Though the thought of charcoal staining the white linens unnerved him, he considered allowing Jehan to sketch away for a while longer.

Yet ultimately, Claude's neatness prevailed over his nostalgia.

"Will you stop drawing in bed?" he admonished. "You will ruin the sheets."

Jehan raised his eyebrow cheekily.

"Sounds like more of a _you_ problem than a _me_ problem," said the younger brother.

Claude trailed his finger on top of Jehan's armoire. He shook his head as he raised a dust-powdered fingertip. Claude's own half of the room was always immaculate: bed neatly made, clothes tidily folded and tucked away, books properly stored back in their shelves. Why couldn't Jehan do the same?

Begrudgingly, Claude picked up the clothes strewn about Jehan's chair, desk, and floor.

"It's nearly midnight, Jehan," grumbled Claude as he folded the clothes. "I'm going to sleep."

"Okay."

Claude looked at his younger brother, who grinned widely. He knew Jehan was purposefully not taking the hint. The elder brother crossed his arms in a vain attempt to seem authoritative.

"You should, as well," Claude insisted.

"Okay," repeated Jehan, curtly.

Sighing, Claude pinched the bridge of his aquiline nose.

_Oh, Lord,_ he thought, _please give me strength, else I fear one of these days I will, as Cain, slay my own flesh and blood._

Whenever something troubled his mind, Claude could always find solace in God's presence. He thought it wise to recite his nightly prayers and try to get some rest. Kneeling by his bedside, Claude clasped his hands and closed his eyes.

"_Pater noster, qui es in caelis_," he began, "_sanctificatur nomem.._."

Before even finishing the first sentence, Claude was distracted by his brother's voice.

"_Or vien ça, vien ça, vien m'amye Perette,_" sung Jehan, teasingly.

Once more, Claude sighed in exasperation. For his own sake as much as for his brother's, he resolved to retain composure. _He must be practicing for choir_, Claude assuaged himself.

Choir _was_ the one church duty Jehan did not ever shirk, and the only one where he outshined his sibling. Claude's voice had broken after his twelfth birthday, never again to reach a note on the staff. Jehan continued to sing treble well into his teens. Now, as a young man, he could reach high notes with power and ease. Claude admired his brother's talent without jealousy, content that Jehan had found some way, _any_ way, to grow closer to the Lord.

"_Or vien ça, vien ça, vien icy jouer,_" Jehan continued, in his bright, jovial voice.

Claude tightly shut his eyes, clenching his rosary.

"_Adveniat regnum tuum,_" he recited, determined to devote full attention to his prayer. "_Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo, et in..._"

"_Ton cul servira de trompette, et ton devant fera.._."

Shocked at his brother's crudeness, Claude gasped.

"Jehan!" he scolded. "Wherever did you pick up such a lewd song?"

Jehan snickered.

"It's just a little ditty, Claude," he goaded. "No need to to get into such a tiffy."

Dejected, Claude turned to his younger sibling, who smiled back insolently. Unblinking, Jehan held his brother's gaze. His turquoise eyes glimmered even in the faint light - unlike Claude's dim brown ones.

Claude sighed once more. How had his brother grown so unlike him?

True, the two siblings did not favor each other much physically. The younger was wide-eyed and rosy-cheeked. His hair was not quite auburn, nor quite strawberry blonde, and hung messily past his shoulders. The elder had a severe, somber stare. His face had grown sallow from summer days spent not in the sun but in his study, with Peter Lombard and St. Thomas Aquinas as his sole companions. Already his face was pinched, though he only a few years past twenty. His neatly cropped hair was a deep sable that might be mistaken for black.

Yet the greater difference between Claude and Jehan was in their temperaments. Once Claude had attribute Jehan's impertinence and indolence to immaturity, but each year, Jehan grew more and more troublesome.

Crossly, Claude snatched the drawing out of his brother's hands.

"Good night, Jehan," he said brusquely.

The red-headed youth said nothing. Outstretching his arms, he jumped off the bed.

"Well," Claude pressed. "Aren't you going to change into your sleeping robes?"

Jehan impishly flung one arm around Claude's shoulder.

"Not quite yet, _mon frère_," he quipped. "The night is still young."

"It's nearly midnight, Jehan."

"Ah," Jehan exclaimed, "that's when Paris is the most lively!"

Brushing his long hair, Jehan stood in front of the mirror. Once he had thoroughly detangled his reddish locks, he tied them back with a thin leather ribbon. Satisfied with his appearance, he turned to his sibling:

"Come with me, brother! I'm heading into town for a little fun."

"No! Jehan, no," reprimanded Claude. "You must stay home. We are to wake up early tomorrow to assist with Vesper mass."

"No, _you_ must come with _me_ to the tavern."

"You know perfectly well that such places are dens of sin."

"Oh, Claude," Jehan laughed. "Loosen up a little - or you might die having never lived at all."

In preparation for the night ahead of him, Jehan searched for his flask. It was hidden in the bottom drawer of his bedside table, behind a pile of stockings. He shook the bottle in disappointment. When he uncapped it and tipped it, a few drops of cognac trickled out.

Mouth twisted in disappointment, Jehan turned to Claude's armoire. He shuffled through his brother's belongings, until, finally, he found it: Claude's almspurse. Its plain black leather was far too austere for Jehan's tastes, but that hardly mattered: he didn't care so much for the pouch itself as for its contents. The bag jingled with the promise of gold and silver.

"Give that back, Jehan," exasperated Claude.

Jehan chortled.

"Come and get it," he said as he stood on his tiptoes, raising the hand holding the pouch. With the free arm, he pushed his brother away.

Claude sighed yet again. Refusing to wrestle the almspurse out of his brother's hands as if they were both still children, he crossed his arms in resignation.

"I'm not going to lie for you again if you stay out late," murmured Claude, glance downcast.

"Yes, you will," chuckled Jehan as he affixed the almspurse to his belt. He mockingly kissed his brother's cheek before dashing out the door. "Brother dear, you're _so_ good to me!"

* * *

**A/N: **I know, I know, long time no write! Sorry about that; work has been hectic. But I haven't abandoned this story!

And I do appreciate comments - so thank you! The identity of the narrator should be revealed after Bells and Out There are done.

Originally, I was gonna publish this chapter and the next as one, but I found that whenever I worked on this chapter I just edited minor flaws in the earlier sections rather than write the meat of the later ones. Since the chapter was running long, I figured it would probably best if I split it up :)

I know giving explicit dates only brings attention to my anachronisms... like Jehan's song... or the bird plague doctor masks... or the fact that Phoebus just came back from the front even though France was not at war in 1482... but I feel they give a little bit more clarity to the narrative.

* * *

**Glossary**:

Claude is praying the Lord's Prayer. Here's the translation for his lines:

"Our Father, who art in Heaven. Hallowed be thy..."

"Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, in heaven as in..."

Jehan is singing an early modern French song called Or Vien Ca by Clement Janequin. Here's the translation:

"Oh come here, come here, my friend Perette."

"Oh come here, come here, come here to play."

"Your bottom will serve as a trumpet and your front will..."


	3. Deux frères pt 2

**Chapter 1:** Deux frères (cont.)

* * *

**1453**

Novices walked, in formation, down the nave of Notre Dame. First in line was the first in his class: overachiever Claude Frollo. The sweet smell of incense wafted from Claude's swinging thurible as he marched towards the altar.

The soon-to-be priests took seat in the pews. Liturgical chants reverberated through the vastness of the cathedral. Today was a joyful day: an ordination ceremony was about to begin.

At the pulpit stood Père Dupin. In his booming voice he delivered the sermon. Claude tried best as he could to pay attention, yet all the Latin phrases quickly became but a buzz in his ear.

Within the hour, Claude Frollo would be an ordained priest. This thought should have delighted Claude, who had for years devoted himself to prayer and scholasticism. Yet the young man could find no joy in his achievement. Glancing furtively over his shoulder, Claude scanned the crowd in search of Jehan.

Père Dupin called the novices to bow. In front of the golden cross, they pressed heads and palms to the floor.

When his name was called, Claude stood. He walked up to Père Dupin, gazing into the Archdeacon's once brown eyes - rimmed now with milky blue. Beneath their glassy glaze, Dupin's eyes gleamed with something like paternal pride.

Claude knelt before Père Dupin as he placed his hand on the young man's crown. Dupin sprinkled his adoptive son's head with holy water before signing the cross. Then, by lowering the vestments over his shoulders, the Archdeacon officially anointed Claude Frollo as a priest.

The newly named cleric returned to his seat. He forced a smile as he watched, listlessly, the rest of the service. Claude's racing thoughts soon drowned out Père Dupin's words once more. For what felt like hours Claude sat staring at nothing in particular, awaiting the ceremony's end.

"_In saecula saeculorum_," finally concluded Père Dupin, "_amen._"

"_Amen_," repeated the congregation. Claude, in his distraction, failed to join them.

As the parishioners began to disperse, Claude saw the opportunity to retreat to his room. Yet as he headed towards the stairs, he felt a heavy hand weigh upon his shoulder. Claude turned to see Père Dupin's joyful smile as he hugged him tightly.

"Congratulations, Claude. You have a bright future ahead of you."

"Thank you, Father," he answered, hoping his tone would not betray his apprehension.

Yet Père Dupin had known Claude long enough to know when something troubled him.

"Is something the matter?"

"I-it's nothing."

Père Dupin narrowed his cloudy eyes.

"I could not help but notice Jehan was nowhere to be found during the service."

"He... was feeling unwell," Claude lied. In truth, he'd not seen his brother since Friday afternoon. It was now Sunday evening.

"Your brother sure does get ill a lot, doesn't he?"

Unable to answer, Claude evaded the Archdeacon's gaze.

"Excuse me, Father," he said, and ran back to his chambers at a speed nearly as quick as the beat of his heart.

For hours he paced his room, awaiting Jehan's return. When the pacing grew tiresome, Claude turned to the bookstand in search of a distraction. Theology, philosophy, and natural science were usually Claude's predilect topics. But he knew today these subjects would prove too dense for his troubled mind. Grudgingly, he picked one of his brother's chivalric romances out of the shelf.

Reclining on the bed, Claude began to read. From the first chapter, the story seemed to him hopelessly melodramatic. The sappy plot would not have bothered much Claude were the prose any good. It was not.

Claude yawned as not a second, nor a third, but a _fourth_ love interest to the heroine was introduced. The novel so thoroughly uninspired him that Claude did not realize he'd dozed off until he was awoken by the creeping door. He opened his eyes to see his brother, staggering into the room.

"Jehan? Where were you? Why weren't you at the…"

"What sort of welcome is this, brother dear?" Jehan slurred. "Didn't you miss me?"

As Jehan squeezed his shoulders, Claude's nose wrinkled at the acrid smell of brandy on his brother's breath.

"Of course I missed you! Don't you remember, today was my…"

Claude trailed off as he caught a whiff of something besides liquour. Rose, perhaps - and oud. A hint of cardamom, too, and patchouli.

"Why," questioned Claude, "do you smell like perfume?"

"Come on. Can't a man care about his personal hygiene?"

"This is _you_ we're talking about, Jehan. You're a grown man and I _still_ have to pester you to brush your teeth."

Pushing his sibling away, Jehan grumbled:

"Leave me alone, Claude. I'm tired."

"Jehan, please... I'm worried about you."

Lovingly rubbing Jehan's arm, Claude tried to look his little brother in the eye. Yet Jehan's blue-green gaze was fixed upon the floor. Claude heartened at what was, he thought, a sincere expression of remorse - until Jehan retched.

"Oh, no..."

Though Claude stepped back, his shoes were ruined all the same.

* * *

**1454**

It was not the first time he'd _known_ a woman.

It was not the first time he'd known _this_ particular woman.

Yet it was the first time he had brought a woman to his own bedchambers.

Among hushed laughter, they scuttled up the stairs to the cloisters. Fingers splayed out, brown eyes beckoning, she pressed against the door as it closed behind her. He drew nearer, placing his hand in the small of her back. He tasted the cinnamon of her neck, her jawline, her bosom - but not her lips. Never her lips.

The affair had begun as sordidly as any of Jehan's. Though he'd long been a regular at _Madame Bach's, _sweet, shy Florika had never caught his eye. Sure, she was _pretty_ \- but in a house so full of beauty, pretty was a cheap commodity. Yet, one night, Jehan's go-to girl was out sick, and he figured Florika would do.

That night, something changed in him. He found himself returning to Florika time and again. At first, he did not understand why. Nothing she did was particularly _dirty_. Later, he found her charm lied precisely in that fact - she was the only person with whom intimacy did not feel dirty. Soon his visits to other women grew less and less frequent, until Jehan did not want to see anyone else but her.

One evening, as he and Florika laid limbs entangled, an odd fancy struck Jehan.

"Would you like to meet me somewhere else?" he'd asked.

Against her better judgement, Florika said yes.

Now, as he held this girl in the quiet darkness, a realization crept upon Jehan. Breathing heavily still, he pulled back from their embrace and reached to cup her flushed cheek. As she looked at him by wan moonlight, her dark gaze seemed infinite. The pair stared at each other for a small eternity, both understanding what neither was bold enough to say.

Biting her lip, Florika threw her arms around Jehan's neck. He inhaled her sweet breath as she drew him closer, and, for the first time, allowed her mouth to meet his.

When Jehan kissed her, he knew: he'd never known Florika at all. He'd never known, _truly_ known, a woman.

Tasting Jehan's lips, Florika knew: though she had been taken by too many men to count, she had never _truly_ given herself to one.

She tugged on the ribbon that held his copper waves. He undid her braid, night-black hair tumbling down her back. Button by button, she revealed the chemise beneath his doublet. Hook by hook, he unfastened the lacing of her stays. Devouring each other's lips, they stumbled onto the bed, hands fumbling in reborn inexperience.

"Jehan…"

"Jehan?" cried a man's voice.

The lovers quickly drew the covers over their bodies at the sight of Jehan's brother. Claude shielded his gaze with his hand as the pair half-dressed hurriedly, yet in his mind he still saw the girl's bare figure. He still heard the melody of her soft sighs. For a second, Claude allowed himself to imagine it was he whose fingers fiddled through the blue-black strings down that back of sinuous rosewood.

He shook the sinful thought off his head. The girl was a heathen - that much could be surmised from her dark hair and dusky complexion. Surely she was a seductress, put in Jehan's path to tempt him. Yet Claude's will was stronger than his brother's - he remained steadfast in his resolve to resist temptation. He fixed his eyes upon the wall and stood cross-armed as his brother approached, hopping into his hose.

"Please, Claude" said Jehan, "don't get angry."

"You've brought a girl in our room?" Claude asked. The hurt in his voice turned into disdain as he added, "A _gypsy_, no less?"

"But Claude, I-"

"Jehan, how could you throw away our livelong vows for some fleeting pleasure?"

Jehan glanced back at the girl, who had kept to a corner. She who'd blossomed so beautifully for his eyes was once more but a rosebud in winter. When he turned to her, Florika hid her tear-stained face in Jehan's chest. Jehan dried her eyes with a tender hand before presenting her to his brother.

"Claude… This is Florika." Soft as a prayer, Jehan whispered, "I think… I think I'm in love with her."

Jehan stared his brother in search of a complicity long lost. After a few seconds, Claude's expression began to soften - but as he opened his mouth to speak, he was interrupted by Père Dupin's sonorous bass, booming from the corridor.

"Claude?"

"_Merde_!" Jehan muttered.

Claude refrained from indulging his impulse to scold his brother from swearing as he and Jehan hid the girl behind a curtain.

"What's going on in here?" bellowed Père Dupin as he burst in through the door.

"N-nothing, father."

Père Dupin stared in scrutiny at Jehan's sweat-soaked hair and disheveled clothes. He could have sworn he'd heard a woman's voice from the corridor. Yet Jehan looked back at the archdeacon with the same charming smile he used as a young boy whenever he had to weasel out of trouble.

Knowing that any effort to fish a confession out of Jehan would be fruitless, Père Dupin turned instead to his brother. Though his mouth had long learned to recite endless excuses, Claude's eyes still spoke with perfect candor. The young man darted his gaze away in an attempt to conceal his obvious unease, yet this evasiveness only reinforced Dupin's suspicions.

"Is it _nothing_, Claude?" pressed the Archdeacon, who had noticed Claude's blushed cheek and bobbing throat.

The young man once more could not bring himself to meet his mentor's eyes. He wrang his sweaty hands as he debated whether to once again lie for Jehan. For too long he had defied his morals for his brother - and to what end? The lack of consequences for his actions had only enabled Jehan to further defile all the laws of Notre Dame.

"Tell him, Jehan," Claude pleaded, his voice thin and strangled, yet his brother did not speak. "If you won't, I will!"

Drawing the curtains, Claude grabbed the girl by the arm and roughly threw her onto the ground. Jehan rushed to Florika, helping her up as she hid her face in her hands.

"Pack up your belongings, Jehan," said Père Dupin, a hint of heartbreak in his stern voice. "I expect you to be out of here by tomorrow."

"But, Father-"

"Sorry, Claude, but I've no choice: your brother is expelled."

The two brothers and the girl stood in silence as the Archdeacon left the room. Claude reached his hand out to Jehan's shoulder, but he pushed him away.

"What did you think would happen?" snarled Jehan. "You know these people are -"

"These people? These people have given us a home, and comfort, and safety."

"You call this _comfort_? You call this _safety_? Well, you can have it. You're welcome to it."

And Jehan, and the girl, left.

* * *

**1462**

"_In nomine Patris, Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen._"

"_Amen_," echoed the parishioners.

Dom Claude Frollo was fond of the quietude of midnight mass. Its only attendees were members of the clergy, aside from the odd fanatical layperson. Nuns and priests scuttled out of Notre Dame, their voices but a faint whisper. Frollo welcomed the silence. This morning, the cathedral had been particularly full - today being Quasimodo Sunday, a high holy day. The fatigued priest longed to finally retire to his room.

It had been several months since Frollo was named Archdeacon of Paris, and only now did he begin to realize how demanding his duties truly were. Yet Frollo, never one to shy away from an arduous task, welcomed the workload.

He felt greatly honored by his title. At thirty-four, Frollo was the youngest man to ever preside over the archdiocese. Though he was justly proud of this achievement, Frollo also cherished the position for a more sentimental reason: his nomination had been Père Dupin's dying wish. As he walked back to the cloisters, Frollo smiled wistfully at the memory of his mentor.

Yearning for sleep, Frollo entered his bedchambers. Standing before the mirror he disrobed, averting his gaze from his own nakedness. He quickly covered his wiry figure with a fresh shift, and returned his eyes to his reflection. As he combed his cropped dark hair, he noticed a single white strand. Though Frollo was not usually a vain man, he fretted over this early sign of age.

Youth had always eluded Claude Frollo. Since a too early age he had borne the role of the devoted one, the dutiful one. Too many sunlit days he had forgone for the dusty dark of a scriptorium. Though his rigor earned him respect, it cost him love. Frollo's peers always had thought him humorless and high-strung, and so he'd only found friendship in his books and in his horses.

Frollo was, for the most part, content where his decisions had led him. After all, greatness never was achieved without some sacrifice. The lone gray hair would be but a reminder of the station he had reached were it not for one single regret. Only one regret truly weighed upon Frollo. One regret shrouded each of his days in darkness. One regret robbed him of sleep each night, deepening the purple shadows below his eyes.

Unable to shake the guilt off his shoulders, Frollo could do nothing but hope rest would quiet his troubled mind. He blew out the candles, readying himself for bed. As he turned to extinguish the fireplace, he heard a knock on his door.

"Do come in," Frollo grumbled in annoyance at being bothered this late in the evening.

A novice brother timidly entered the room.

"Your grace," said the young man, handing Frollo a missive. "A letter has been urgently delivered for you."

Snatching the letter out of his hand, Frollo dismissed the novice.

The envelope bore no name and no address. Its humble wax seal bore no emblem.

Hastily, Frollo opened the envelope and took out the letter. He rapidly scanned the message. When his eyes finally found the address they'd sought, Frollo rushed to his cloak. Figuring his indecency would be pardoned given the urgency of the situation, he drew it directly over his undergarments. In half-laced riding boots he dashed out of the cathedral, towards the stables. Mounting his ebony colt, Frollo stole to a place far, far away from Notre Dame.

As he rode past the _Île de la Cité_ and towards the more unsavory parts of the city, the streets became narrower and narrower. Finally, Frollo found himself forced to tie his horse up to a lamppost before heading down a dark alleyway.

The stench of human waste permeated the street. Frollo drew his handkerchief - spotless white, trimmed in eyelet lace, and perfumed with clary sage - to his nose.

He counted seven bawds, twelve vagabonds, and tens of dilapidated buildings before he finally arrived at the address: _42 Rue Galois_. Apprehensively, he knocked at the door.

A figure, clad head to toe in heavy black robes, came to greet the visitor. His face was covered in a beak-like mask.

"I'm Father Claude Frollo."

The birdman stood silent, expressionless.

"I-I was told..." continued Frollo, his commanding baritone reverting to the tremulous treble of his youth. "I was told to come to this place."

As he opened the door, the birdman motioned a gloved hand towards the dark corridor.

Fighting the impulse to retch, Frollo held his handkerchief tighter to his nose. It was no use. Even the sweetest of perfumes could not mask the scent of death.

Bodies upon bodies - one could scarcely say if dead or living - lined the room in rows. Filled with an all too familiar dread, Frollo walked through this makeshift hospital. He looked upon the moribund, at once hoping and fearing to find a well-known face.

Then, he saw him.

"Jehan!"

The man who laid before Frollo was but a shadow of the little brother he'd once known. Jehan's once full and rosy cheeks were now sallow and gaunt. His once thick hair hung limply, pinned by sweat to his pale face. From Jehan's thigh bulged a large, rotting apple, barely concealed by his thin, pus-soaked chemise.

"Hello, brother dear" Jehan said weakly.

Frollo rushed to his brother's side, zealously pressing his handkerchief to Jehan's damp forehead. Jehan drew the white cloth to his mouth in a futile attempt to stifle a cough.

"Jehan, where have you been?"

Before he could answer, Jehan was overcome with hacking and wheezing. As he waited for the fit to subside, Frollo caressed his little brother's hair - just as lovingly as he had done once, long ago.

"Traveling…" replied Jehan as he caught his breath. His coughs had stained red Claude's kerchief. "Hounded from city to city with my beautiful Florika."

"That gypsy? You're with _her_?"

"She died just two weeks ago. The pox... a terrible thing to watch her suffer."

Enfolding Jehan's death-blackened fingers in a tender hand, Frollo enveloped his dear brother in an embrace.

"Jehan… Let me take you back. I'll bring you home…"

"Claude..."

Once, beneath the lofty arches and majestic dome of Notre Dame, the two brothers had found a sanctuary. As Jehan withered in his arms, Frollo clung to the desperate hope that those innocent days could be once more.

"Come with me, dear brother..." he whispered. " I'll find some way to cure you, and then things will be just the way they used to be. We- we'll finally be together again! We'll live in the cathedral once more… I'll help you turn your life around! I can lead you down the path of righteous-"

"Enough, Claude! Enough of your pieties!" balked Jehan, forcefully pushing Frollo away. "It's too late for me, anyway."

Jehan shut his eyes, drawing a labored breath. Slowly, he blinked, then looked his brotherin the eye. In the stormy sea of Jehan's gaze, Frollo saw a sincere sorrow for the first time in his life.

"But…" Jehan added, softening his tone. "If you've truly discovered charity at this late date, there is someone you _can _help."

At his gesture, the birdman exited the room - and returned bearing a bundle in his arms.

Frollo furrowed his brow.

"A baby?"

Jehan nodded.

"…_Yours_?"

Jehan nodded once more. Not without hesitation, Frollo took the baby into his arms. He uncovered its face -

Gasping in horror, he drew the blanket back over the child. Never in his life had he seen a sight as frightsome as this… _creature_.

"A monster…" he shuddered. Frollo turned to admonish his brother. "It's God's judgment upon you! The wicked shall not go unpunished."

"I should have known… I was a fool to think you would look after him."

"Look after him? _Me_?"

"He has nobody else."

"But he's a gypsy child."

"…And mine." Jehan's gaze flickered. "Take him… If you can find it in your heart."

"Jehan…"

The blood-stained handkerchief dropped to the ground.

"Jehan?"

Frollo reached a tentative hand to his Jehan's shoulder, gently nudging it as if to stir him from an unpleasant dream.

"Jehan!" cried Frollo once more, desperately shaking his brother's limp body.

It was no use.

Frollo froze, knowing not how he ought to think or what he ought to feel. He longed for tears - it did not matter if salty with sorrow or bitter with anger - to stream down his face, yet they never did.

Was he now to mourn the loss of everything he'd ever loved, or was it eight years too late? Was it suited to rage, and if it were, was he to rage at God, at his brother, or at himself?

For minutes he sat, breathless, alongside this unnamable nothingness - daring not to speak to it in fear one single world would utterly destroy him. He was not brave enough to move - not even to kiss his brother's forehead for the very last time. Frollo was determined still to never break out of the chokehold that gripped him, until -

The baby cried.

The _baby _cried, and suddenly, Frollo became aware again of the small living thing he held in his arms.

Hesitantly, he unveiled the child's face once more. This time, though he grimaced, he did not recoil. Perhaps shrinking away would have been the more prudent reaction, for it was said the devil dwelled in cursed children. Yet he could not help but wonder what sort of foolish devil would choose such a tiny, helpless little creature as a host.

Awash with a distantly familiar feeling, Frollo softly hushed the child. He rocked it in its arms until finally, the crying ceased. The baby reached out a chubby little hand, grasping at the air, seeking nothing in particular. Against his better instincts, Frollo extended a long, thin finger, allowing the child to grasp it in its - _his_ hand.

Holding the last remainder of the little brother he had failed to protect, Frollo had a revelation: the Lord had granted him a second chance. Though he had not saved his brother, he was determined yet to save this creature.

As a final farewell, Frollo squeezed Jehan's languid hand - then left.

He hid the child beneath his cloak as he walked down the cobblestone streets, realizing then that this child was never to see the light of day. Of course, Frollo had his reputation to worry about. Even if the baby were not disfigured, people would speculate as to whence this child came. The wrong sort of rumor could cost Frollo his position.

Yet the common folk were not only gossipy, but superstitious - they would view the boy's appearance as a curse. Were he to venture outside, people would surely hate, and scorn, and jeer. It was wisest to hide the boy away, keep him lock away where no one else could see.

In a way, it could prove a blessing. Whereas Jehan had been led into vice and sin by the temptations of the a morally debauched and putrefied world, this child forever would forever remain in his sanctuary, pure and untainted.

Frollo mounted his horse and retreated to Notre Dame. As he walked into the cathedral, he failed to notice a single figure kneeling by the altar in prayer. He took the child up the stairs to the dark bell tower, from which he was never to escape.

In commemoration of the date, Frollo gave the child a name – thoughtlessly ignoring the name's second meaning, "half-formed":

Quasimodo.

* * *

_Now, here is a riddle_

_to guess if you can,_

_sing the bells of Notre Dame:_

_what makes a monster_

_and what makes a man?_


	4. Song 1: Bells of Notre Dame

**Song 1**: Bells of Notre Dame

* * *

(Church bells strike ominously, four times. The screen is black.)

**CHOIR MEN**:

Olim, olim Deus accelere, (_Someday, someday, God speed,_)

hoc saeculum splendidum, (_this bright millennium,_)

accelera fiat venire olim. (_let it come someday._)

(The bells play once more, this time lighter and more gentle.)

**CHOIR WOMEN**:

Olim, (_Someday,_)

**CHOIR MEN**:

olim Deus accelere, (_Someday, God speed,_)

**CHOIR WOMEN**:

olim Deus accelere, _(someday, God speed,_)

**CHOIR MEN**:

hoc saeculum splendidum, (_this bright millennium,_)

**CHOIR WOMEN**:

hoc saeculum splendidum, (_this bright millennium,_)

**CHOIR**:

accelera fiat venire olim. (_let it come someday._)

(The shot changes to the skies of Paris, Notre Dame cathedral visible through the clouds.)

Ah ah ah,

ah ah ah,

ah ah ah ah ah ah

(The shot slowly zooms in on the streets of Paris, showing scenes of quotidian life.)

**NARRATOR**:

Morning in Paris, the city awakes

to the bells of Notre Dame.

The fisherman fishes, the baker man bakes,

to the bells of Notre Dame.

To the big bells as loud as the thunder,

to the little bells soft as a psalm.

(The shot zooms in on a figure singing and playing a lute, sitting on a fountain. Their face is hidden by a hat and their body shape obscured by a cape. There is a white goat by their side with visible ribs and matted fur. It seems to be very old, and has a gold earring on its left ear. A peasant **BOY** around 12 years old approaches the mysterious bard.)

And some say the soul of the city's

the toll of the bells,

the bells of Notre Dame.

(The figure takes off their hat, revealing a middle-aged Romani woman. It is the yet unnamed **NARRATOR**. She puts the hat at her feet.)

**BOY**: _Mother said I mustn't speak to Gypsies._

**NARRATOR**: _Ah, but you already are._ (beat)

_Did you ever hear the story of the bellringer of Notre Dame? Hidden away up there, high, high, in the dark belltower?_

(**NARRATOR **pauses, as if in thought, then shakes her head.)

_No, I mustn't tell you. It is no story for children's ears._

**BOY**: _I'm not a child._

(**NARRATOR** laughs.)

**NARRATOR**: _Very well. If you insist, _chava_, then I will tell you. But I must warn you: it is a terrible tale, a tale of a man… and a monster._

(Fade to Notre Dame cathedral on a snowy morning. Priests lead two young boys into Notre Dame. The older is dark haired. The younger has reddish hair.)

**NARRATOR**:

Long years ago, did this story begin,

in this place called Notre Dame.

Two orphan brothers were both taken in

by the grace of Notre Dame.

(imitating **FROLLO** with a deep voice)

Claude the older, who cared for his brother,

(imitating **JEHAN** with a jaunty tone)

Young Jehan, full of beauty and charm,

And they lived, and they grew,

and awoke to the music of bells,

the bells of Notre Dame.

(A stained glass montage shows the brothers growing to young men. **FROLLO** is thin and pale with dark hair and is clad in the habit of a novice priest. **JEHAN** is auburn haired and fairly handsome.)

**CHOIR:** _Kyrie Eleison_ (Lord have mercy)

**FROLLO**:

Oh, dear brother,

'neath these arches and this sacred dome,

we are blessed to find our sanctuary,

and our home.

**JEHAN**: _Come with me, brother! I'm heading into town for a little fun._

**FROLLO**: _No, Jehan. You must stay home and write out your catechism._

**JEHAN**: _No, brother. YOU must come with ME, to the tavern._

**FROLLO**: _I'm not going to lie for you again if you stay out late._

(**JEHAN** kisses his brother on the cheek and runs away.)

**JEHAN**: _Yes, you will. Brother dear, you're so good to me!_

(**FROLLO** kneels down in prayer.)

**NARRATOR**:

Righteous Claude Frollo was ever more drawn,

like a son, to Notre Dame.

Not like his profligate brother Jehan,

who'd have none of Notre Dame.

(A montage shows **FROLLO** praying and studying, and **JEHAN** drinking and flirting with women.)

Though as brothers, they loved one another,

Frollo watched in despair and alarm,

As Jehan grew more wild,

and defied, and defiled, all the laws,

the laws of Notre Dame.

(The midnight bells toll. **FROLLO** returns to his and his brother's bedchambers, angry.)

**FROLLO**: _Jehan, are you in there? Where were you? Why weren't you at evening mass?_

(**FROLLO** opens the door of his room to find **JEHAN** in bed with a woman. The two try to cover themselves and get dressed as quickly as they can.)

**CHOIR**:

Kyrie Eleison (_Lord have mercy_)

**FROLLO**: _You've brought a girl in our room? And Gypsy, no less? Jehan, how could you throw away our livelong vows for some fleeting pleasure?_

**JEHAN**: _Claude… This… this is Florika. We're in love._

**FATHER DUPIN** (from the corridor): _Claude?_

**JEHAN**: _Merde! Help me hide her!_

(**FLORIKA** hides behind a curtain. **FATHER DUPIN** enters the room.)

**FATHER DUPIN**: _What's going on here?_

**JEHAN**: _Nothing, father._

**FATHER DUPIN**: _Is it nothing, Claude?_

**FROLLO**: _Tell him, Jehan. If you won't, I will!_

(**FROLLO** drags **FLORIKA** out of hiding, roughly, and throws her on the ground.)

**CHOIR**:

Kyrie Eleison (_Lord have mercy_)

**FATHER DUPIN**:

You must leave, Jehan,

this holy refuge where you've dwelled.

**NARRATOR**:

Kyrie Eleison (_Lord have mercy_)

**FROLLO**: _Leave? But, father -_

**FATHER DUPIN**:

Sorry, Claude, but I've no choice,

your brother is expelled.

**JEHAN**: _What did you think would happen? You know these people are -_

**FROLLO**: _These people? These people have given us a home, and comfort, and safety._

**JEHAN**: _You call this "comfort"? You call this "safety"? Well, you can have it. You're welcome to it._

(**JEHAN** and **FLORIKA** leave.

Time passes. A montage shows **FROLLO** donning increasingly elaborate clerical robes.)

**NARRATOR**:

Frollo ascended uncommonly fast,

through the ranks of Notre Dame.

'Til he was named the Archdeacon at last,

and gave thanks to Notre Dame.

(**FROLLO** crosses himself. A** PRIEST** enters the room and hands **FROLLO** a letter.)

And then one mournful day brought a letter,

and the name that it bore was…

**FROLLO**: _Jehan!_

**NARRATOR**:

And concealing his face,

Frollo stole to a place far away,

away from Notre Dame.

(**FROLLO** dons a cloak, and under cover of darkness, leaves for a dirty, dark alleyway. A **PLAGUE DOCTOR** leads **FROLLO** into a dingy makeshift hospital where the moribund are sent. **JEHAN** lies on a bed, pale and gaunt.)

**JEHAN** (coughing): _Hello, brother dear._

**FROLLO**: _Jehan! Where have you been?_

**JEHAN**: _Traveling, hounded from city to city with my beautiful Florida._

**FROLLO** (disdainfully): _That gypsy, you're with her?_

**JEHAN**: _…she died just a month ago. The pox. Terrible thing to watch her suffer._

**FROLLO**: _Jehan!_ _Let me take you back… I'll bring you home._

Brother, dearest, come with me,

where we will find a remedy,

and Notre Dame once more will be

your sanctuary.

Healing you will be my goal,

not just your body, but your soul,

we'll be together in our holy

sanctuary.

**JEHAN**: _Enough, Claude! Enough of your pieties. But if you've truly discovered charity at this late date, there is someone you can help._

(Cries are heard in the background. The **PLAGUE DOCTOR** hands **FROLLO** a baby, wrapped in blankets.)

**FROLLO**: _A baby? Yours?_

(**FROLLO** uncovers the baby's face and gasps in horror at its ugliness.)

**FROLLO**: _A monster! It's God's judgment upon you! The wicked shall not go unpunished._

**JEHAN**: _I should have known. I was a fool to think you would look after him._

**FROLLO**: _Look after him, me?_

**JEHAN** (weakly): _He has nobody else. Take him… if you can find it in your heart._

(**JEHAN** closes his eyes.)

**FROLLO**: _Jehan…_

(**FROLLO** shakes his brother, but he's unresponsive.)

**FROLLO**: _Jehan!_

(**FROLLO** checks his brother's pulse, and sees he is dead. **FROLLO** mourns over his brother.

The baby cries. **FROLLO** hides it under his cloak and runs away, back to Notre Dame.)

**CHOIR MEN**:

Dies irae, (_Day of wrath,_)

**CHOIR WOMEN**:

dies irae, (day of wrath,)

**CHOIR MEN**:

dies illa, (_that day_,)

**CHOIR WOMEN**:

dies illa, (_that day_)

**CHOIR**:

split speculum in favilla, (_shall consume the world in ashes_,)

quantum tremor est futurus, (_what trembling is to be_)

quando Judex est venturus, (_when the judge is come_,)

**CHOIR**:

quantum tremor est futurus,

quando Judex est venturus,

teste david cum sibyla, (_as prophesied by david and the sibyl_)

dies irae, dies illa, (_day of wrath, that day_)

Ah ah ah,

ah ah ah,

ah ah ah ah ah ah

(**FROLLO** gazes back at the cathedral, where the saints are gazing back upon him in judgement.)

**NARRATOR**:

And the saints regarded Frollo from their stone façades,

and he felt their gaze as if it were the eyes of God.

**FROLLO**: _Oh, Lord! You've sent me a test! This child is my cross to bear. I may not have saved my brother, but I will save… this thing. But a monster like this must be kept hidden._

(**FROLLO** uncovers the child's face. At first he grimaces, but then **FROLLO** smiles faintly.)

**FROLLO:**

See this loathsome creature

from whom lesser men would flee,

I will keep and care for him

and teach him, at my knee,

to think like me.

**NARRATOR**: _And Frollo gave the child a cruel name, a name that means "half-formed"…_

**FROLLO**: _Quasimodo…_

**NARRATOR**:

Now, here is a riddle

to guess if you can,

sing the bells of Notre Dame:

what makes a monster,

and what makes a man?

**CHOIR MEN**:

What makes a monster and

**CHOIR WOMEN:**

What makes a monster and what makes a man?

(The camera transitions to a real life shot of **QUASIMODO**'s shadow, ringing the bells of Notre Dame, then up towards the bells themselves, where the title screen is shown.)

**NARRATOR & CHOIR**:

Sing the bells, bells,

bells, bells,

bells, bells,

bells, bells,

bells of Notre Dame.

(**QUASIMODO** is shown swinging from the ropes of the bells as he rings them. He drops with a resounding thud.)

* * *

**Author's notes**:

Hi! I'm glad you are enjoying the story :). The narrator will be introduced in two chapters! I promise I'll try to get 'em out ASAP! I will try to take advantage of the three day weekend.

1\. This is primarily based off the US stage version of the song. I wish I could have made the number shorter without affecting Frollo's backstory but I'm terrible as a lyricist so I just let it be. Is it too long? Probs. But I figured if you're reading fanfiction you probably don't wanna see exactly the same songs as the Disney movie / the musical, else you'd just look the actual songs up. So my policy for this fic is including all extra lyrics even if I was an actual script writer I probably would try to cut the chaff.

2\. Also, Jehan offering his racist, devout brother a prostitute as a birthday present makes no sense. If it wasn't weird enough to share a prostitute with your brother, Jehan has feelings for Florika. So I just made it so Frollo catches the two of them "in the act".

3\. At first I was gonna have Soeur Augustine convince Frollo to not drown baby Quasi in the well by delivering the "you never can run from nor hide what you've done from the eyes of Notre Dame" line, but I didn't want to make Frollo too unsympathetic right off the bat.


End file.
